This is the product of watching Season One's episode Funk shortly after a marathon of So You Think You Can Dance. This takes place post Season Two, in the first month of the Glee Clubs senior year.

Disclaimer to Glee, Nicki Minaj's Super Bass.

The assignment this week was something a little different for Glee Club. They were asked to find a way to express themselves without singing and through dance. It was prompted when Brittany and Mike were asked, well not even really asked, more like expected, to choreograph the numbers for their senior sectionals.

Let it be said that Santana didn't take to lightly to that.

"They've only been showcased in competition once," she gestured uselessly to the best dancers in the room. "That and Mike's dance at our Neglected Artist's fiasco."

"That's true Mr. Shue, I don't think we spend nearly enough time exploring wordless expression," Rachel chimed in. "It's a common practice on Broadway to-"

"The point is," Santana spoke over the diva. "These two dance their asses-"

"Language Santana."

"Their butts off, they come up with the best choreography and I think they're probably the two most unappreciated talents in this fricken room. Name one number that they didn't choreograph, I dare you."

"Why do you care?"

Santana narrowed her eyes at Lauren who was sitting all cozy next to Puck. The sight still sickened her but the rhino made a valid point, why was Santana making a big deal out of this? She knew of course that the answer was that Brittany had spent so much time working out choreography last week that she failed her Spanish test, but Santana wasn't about to blast that information out to the Glee Club and embarrass her friend. She did, however, give Mr. Shue an earful after class that day and he assured her that Brittany would get a retest at the end of the week.

"Her reasons and profanities aside," Mr. Shue interjected when he realized Santana's hesitancy. "Santana is right, I might not have been stressing the importance of the expression in dance. So this weeks assignment is going to be a dance to express yourself, try to make it original, and while you can have lyrics in the song of your choice, make the presentation about your dancing."

"This is awesome," Brittany's soft voice drifted into her ear and Santana looked down to where the blonde was sitting a few rows in front of her. She sent Santana a grin and mouthed, 'Thank you, San.'

Santana tried to return her smile but she couldn't... she tried to take solace in the fact that she had made Brittany happy... but she couldn't. All she could think about was how unhappy she was with how distant they were. How much more happy they would be if they were together.

So she found herself trudging into the choir room, wishing that she had kept her mouth shut yesterday when she saw Rachel in a ballerina tutu. She tried not to gag and made her way to a seat, she kept her eye at her nails and tried to be indifferent to everything around her. She didn't care about anything anymore.

The summer had been amazing. It was great. It was just her and Brittany and they were so in love it was almost sickening in retrospect. She didn't think there was a single day that they spent more that eight hours apart form each other. They had wrapped themselves up in a world of illusion and finally were together in a way that neither of them could ever think was possible. Lost in a world where no one else mattered, no boys, no parities, no judgement. They spent most of their summer at Santana's summer home or in Cincinnati with Brittany's extended family, namely her lesbian Aunt Stephanie and wife Rebecca. They had finally been a couple and Santana had never, in her life and or wildest dreams, been more happy.

Until school started approach and successfully killed her buzz.

Brittany gave her an ultimatum.

All or nothing.

She told Santana that she would be waiting, she just didn't know how long she could.

Santana spent a whole week in her room mourning the loss of her happiness, of her Brit-Brit. Brittany would call her once or twice a day to make sure she was alive, to let her know that she cared... that she loved her. The mourning turned into a bitterness that Santana couldn't shake.

She wasn't nearly as bitchy to the members of the Glee Club, she felt like it was pointless to make them feel as bad about themselves as she felt. She was over that juvenile habit. So she just stewed in her self-pity. People noticed the difference, her dark domineer, the smoldering anger behind her eyes. Some tried to talk to her about it, but they were always rebuffed and told that it didn't matter. No one tried more that twice except Quinn, who looked at her like she knew exactly what was going on and Santana wouldn't be surprised if she did.

Quinn took a seat next to her and they suffered through Rachel's dance together. In all honesty the ballet wasn't that bad, it was the loving facial expressions she sent to Finn every two seconds that made Santana want to hit something. Who were they to have such an socially acceptable romance? Why couldn't she have that? Why did things have to be so fucking unfair? She didn't notice that her leg was bouncing in a frustrated manner until Quinn put a steady hand on her knee. She sent the brunette a curious look, but Santana didn't meet her eyes, she was trying to ignore the concerned look on Brittany's face from across the room. None of this mattered. She tried to suppress the tight constricting feeling in her chest.

"What are you doing for this assignment?" Quinn asked her quietly, she wasn't able to mask her nerves. Quinn was decent singer and all but she was hardly creative enough to come up with her own dance routine. Seriously, all the stand alone performances she's done was mostly sand there and sway kind of gigs.

"Not sure yet," she shrugged evasively. She knew exactly what she was going to do. It was just a matter of getting up her courage. "I'll probably interpretive dance my fist into Artie's face, you?"

Quinn smirked despite herself, "I have no idea. Dancing has never been my thing."

"It's a lot harder than people think," Santana rolled her eyes. "That's the whole point of me getting all pissy up in Shue's face. No one knows how hard Britt works at this shit and he just takes her for granted, this whole club takes her for granted..."

I took her for granted.

"Are you alright?" Quinn eyed her friend closely, she was used to the Latina being protective of Brittany but there was so much more to her tone. She was seething about so much more.

"Frickin' peachy Q."

A few days had passed and she had sat through an interpretive dance from Kurt she could only interpret as 'I'm so gay and so happy.' She was jealous of Kurt, and his bravery, and his courage, and his dad that loved him no matter what. Not to mention the fact that he had a reasonably attractive boyfriend who loved him and his crazy fashion sense. She was jealous that he was so accepted. Tina and Mike did a swing dance that clearly said 'I'm so in love and we're going to make amazing Asian babies.' She was jealous because they were so happy together and no one questioned their love. And their ability to conceive a child, she was jealous of that too. Artie did a number that consisted of pop and locks from his waist up. Santana had to admit it was decent for what he was capable of doing.

Today, the beautiful Wednesday that it was, was in fact, her day. She was going to put it all out there, today, in Glee club. She stood at her locker for a moment, running through the list in her head, making sure she had everything she needed in her old Cheerios duffel bag, she didn't acknowledge that she had already checked three times before school, at lunch, and again right now. Things were all set. All she had to do was get it over with.

"Hey!"

She looked up from her locker just in time to get a face full of cherry slushy.

"Dyke."

She didn't see who it was, she kept her eyes closed and wiped the excess off her face and took a few deep breaths.

"Fuck."

She wanted nothing more that to find that guy and beat his fucking face in. She wanted to make him bleed until his shirt was stained just as red as hers.

"This."

She slammed her locker shut, not caring about the visible dent now marring the corner from the force of the heel of her hand.

"Shit."

Santana slung her duffel over her shoulder, and stormed to the choir room. She wasn't surprised to see most of the club already there, the conversations died off when she walked in, still slushyfied and looking enraged. She didn't speak, she wasn't sure what they expected her to say or why they insisted on staring at her. Somewhere in the back of her head she knew they were all afraid to ask her if she was alright, best not provoke her wrath. She dropped her duffel on one of the seats and took out a small hand towel that she unfortunately had to kept ready for instances just like this one, and wiped the rest of the slushy off of her face and neck. Her shirt was ruined and that pissed her off.

"San are you okay?"

Brittany's voice came from close behind her, it made her freeze.

"I'm fine Brittany," she wiped herself down again, just to hide her face but she couldn't keep the sharp undertone from her voice.

"Do you have another shirt?"

"I have a hoodie," Santana answered. "...and a wife beater under this, I don't think it got anything on it."

"Here... let me help."

Brittany's hands lifted her tee shirt lightly and held onto her wife beater, Santana's breath caught in her throat, she wished that the Glee club wasn't watching her but she obliged. Dropping her towel on her duffel she took deep breath, grabbing the hem of her shirt she pulled it over her head. She wished that she could turn around wrap her arms around the blonde and just cry.

"Is that your dance? A strip tease?" Artie's voice was sarcastic and bitter as he rolled in with Tina and Mike.

"Shut it Wheels," Puck growled, "She got slushied."

"Just karma," Artie shrugged.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Santana couldn't help herself, she knew what his issue was, he blamed her for losing Brittany. As if she was the one that made him call the blonde stupid. But it was too much, the slushy, the dyke comment, the slut remark. She didn't understand why everyone was in her face today. Why today of all days? "You wanna step to me Four-eyes? Oh wait, you cant-!"

"Hey now," Mr. Shue stepped in before she could finish or Artie could respond. "Let's all just clam down, Santana are you alright?"

"I'm fricken amazing," she turned back to her duffel and pulled out her hoodie. She sent the blonde a thin smile. "Thanks B."

Brittany nodded and found a seat by Quinn.

"Did anyone want to give their dance in Santana's place?"

"What?" Santana was indignant, "Hell no, I'm dancing right here, right fricken now. No one is taking my spot."

"I just thought that with what happened you would want to reschedule," he seemed surprised that still wanted to perform. "Take a moment to um... calm down?"

"I am fricken calm," Santana knew her tone was disrespectful, that she could be reprimand and sent to the principal's office. She knew everyone was giving her that 'yeah sure you're calm' look, but she didn't care. She needed to get this out. She needed to do something about this feeling in her chest, the cloud over her shoulder, the pain in her heart. "Just give me a sec to get my stuff together."

"Roll out her stripper pole."

The slight tilting of her head was the only indication she heard it. Her complexion was dark enough to hide the deep flush that covered her cheeks. That's all she was to these people. A slut. That's all she was to anyone. A closet dyke that slept around to pretend she was normal. She wasn't sure what hurt worse, that it was true or that they were calling her out on it. Or that Brittany had yet to stand up for her about anything. She had yet to tell her ex-boyfriend to shut up.

Santana could feel her blood boil, her ears were ringing with her pulse. She had to blink away the haze in her vision. She zipped up her hoodie, changed her shoes, slipping out of her heels and into a pair of Vans and pulled out her other two props. A black flat-billed baseball cap with neon yellow duck shape on the side, it was Brittany's favorite, and a red bandana that she folded a certain way and placed strategically in her bra.

"I thought that was the point of a boob job," Artie droned on. "So you wouldn't have to stuff them anymore."

"Open your mouth one more time, Abrams," Quinn hissed from her seat.

Puck leaned forward to place a hand on his shoulder and whisper, "I dare you."

"Let the hater be," Santana watched him through narrow eyes. "He's just bitter because he can't dance and he has to sit there all week and watch it get rubbed in his face."

It was a truth and that hurt more than any insult Santana could have come up with and she knew it. So she wasn't surprised when he didn't respond. She crossed the room and put her iPod in the Glee Club's stereo.

"So what, you're gangster now?" Kurt raised his eyebrows at Santana when she fitted her cap on her head. They're eyes met and Santana knew he didn't mean it unkindly, Mercedes looked curious next to him.

"This is somethin' I picked up in the Heights," Santana shrugged, adjusting her hoodie and moving to the center of the room, dragging a chair with her.

"I'm not going to sit here and watch you get all booty shaking or perform some type of lap dance," Rachel shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "Frankly, I find the vulgarity offending.

"You're not really going to give a lap dance are you?"

"I'd be kinda hot."

"Still waiting for the stripper pole," Artie chimed in.

That's what they expected of her. Some sexed up sultry show. Santana Lopez, resident slut. She shook her head, kind of to answer their questions and kind of to clear her mind. She needed to get the image of herself choking Artie to death out of her mind. The tightness in her chest was back, her fists were clenched, the pounding in her ears. She was just so... fucking... irate.

She took a deep breath, and pulled her cap lower on her head. "Hit it."

Piano Man hit the play button and there was a few beats. The the real jam came. She stood absolutely smoldering in her thinly suppressed furry, bobbing her head to the heavy bass in a slow and deliberate beat for a moment until the second grove filtered in, a remix of Nicki Minaj's Super Bass.

She stepped off hard with her left foot, a stomping motion that made her heel hurt, then the movement radiated up her body in a series of short choppy movements. It caught everyone's attention. She stomped with her right foot, mirroring her motions, but this time the momentum reached her arms that extended out in sharp flares before coming back down to punch herself in the thighs.

The pain got her going, she hit herself like she wanted to hit Artie, hit the guy that slushied her, hit the world, and everyone in the room could feel the power of it all. Her feet started gliding in small and crisps gliding locks, her body moving along with it. She would make a dramatic movement, then a smaller series of jerks, teasing the tension out, building her jive. Her arms thrashed in a perfectly sequenced movement as if to say, You want some of this?

The beat pounded and Santana spun, stomped, popped, locked, shifted and flared, her motions were harsh and brutal and just so powerful. It was like her small body couldn't possibly hold back all the energy, all the aggravation. They could feel it every time her feet the floor, every time she cut her arms through the air into another locking sequence. Here I am, what the fuck are you going to do about it.

Santana was so angry. She took it out on the chair, trapping a leg with her foot and sliding it in front of her and gripping the back with both hands. She tipped it this way and that, making the legs fall in sequence to the beat in rough accents. She was so angry. Hooking her foot around a leg she tipped it over and just after it hit the floor she stepped on another leg to knock it back into it's correct position, spun in, straddled it, and knocked out a few arm-only moves that put Artie to shame. She stood and dramatically kicked the chair to the side, bringing her leg back into a swinging motion that trust hard into the ground. Rachel visibly flinched at the noise. This is me. Deal with it.

Quinn leaned over to Brittany and whispered, "Did you know she could do that?"

Brittany only smiled softly and nodded, never taking her eyes off the brunette.

Santana turned on her heels and when she refaced the audience on hand was over her heart, tugging on her hoodie to the rhythm of the music. Mimicking a heartbeat. It was a hard pounding, that grew until her fist was slamming into her chest. Her whole body reverberated with the movement, all in time with the beat. Rhythmic anger. Musical pain.

Boy you got my heartbeat runnin' away

Beating like a drum and it's coming your way

Can't you hear that boom, badoom, boom, boom, badoom, boom, bass

"You stomp it out girl," Mercedes praised from the back.

Her arms twisted in front of her, the rhythm flowing through her body in the short frustrated spurts of movement that was her dance. It was a violent trashing, her arms sliding up her sides, over her stomach, pulling at her hoodie, her entire torso shook with the beat, her chest exaggerating breath, her eyes crushed closed together in the hurt that only she could feel. She was trying, so desperately, to pull it all out of her body, rid herself of what was causing it all. From the tips of her toes to the end of her hair. With what she elaborated into a painful struggle, and in jerky and resistant moves, one hand slipped into her hoodie and pulled out the red bandana.

Yeah that's that super bass

Got that super bass boom, badoom, boom, boom, badoom, boom, bass

Yeah that's that super bass

The dance seemed to soften, wasn't quite as violent. Her whole body reoriented itself to the bandana and the story started. Her heart, the bandana, was thrown about with her locking, along for the ride with the enraged, frustrated, stomping.

See I need you in my life for me to stay

No, no, no, no, no I know you'll stay

No, no, no, no, no don't go away

One elbow shot up over her face, knocking off her hat so that her other hand could catch it behind her back, and in a slick little series of movements played a little game of cat and mouse, hiding the bandana under the cap as her feet moved with the beat and she spun on her heels again, popping up to her toes and balancing for a moment before falling back to her heels. The bandana was caught, shown, flashed, thrown and caught again. Shown in bits and pieces, never too exposed, never out of her control. She flipped the cap back onto her head with a move that made Mike call out, "Yea!"

Boy you got my heartbeat runnin' away

Don't you hear that heartbeat comin' your way

Santana could feel it, she could feel the anger in her chest loosen as the music took her, as she slid along the floor, gliding effortlessly on the edges of her shoes. She had planned this part, the movement, the throw, and the back flip into her final stomp sequence. Cheerios were always good for something.

Oh it be like, boom, badoom, boom, boom, badoom, boom, bass

Can't you hear that boom, badoom, boom, boom, badoom, boom, bass

She didn't have to be facing the audience to know that her bandana had landed in Brittany's lap.

See I need you in my life for me to stay

She hoped that everything would be obvious.

No, no, no, no, no I know you'll stay

No, no, no, no, no don't go away

She hoped that the her last sequence of controlled rage, pops, locks, stomps, thrashes, and flares would be able to express how angry she was with the world, with herself. She was such an idiot for asking Brittany to be a secret, she was such an idiot to think that it would be easier without her. Because at least she would be a little happy, slushy covered with a girlfriend wiping it off her face for her. Telling her she loves her and that everything will be alright.

Boy you got my heartbeat runnin' away

Don't you hear that heartbeat comin' your way

Oh it be like, boom, badoom, boom, boom, badoom, boom, bass

Can't you hear that boom, badoom, boom, boom, badoom, boom, bass.

A back-hand-spring had her facing the audience as the song ended, landing on one knee and looking at the floor.

"Sanny From the Block," Mercedes called out a large smile on her face as she started clapping. The rest of the club followed suit shortly after with more fervor than she expected.

"I feel turned on and emasculated at the same time," Sam muttered to Finn who just nodded.

She was glad for her cap being pulled down to hide her eyes, she wasn't sure when she had started crying but it was totally happening right now. She was breathing heavy, her face flushed from the exertion, she tried to play off wiping her tears away as wiping off sweat. She adjusted her cap and faced the Glee Club, or more importantly Brittany.

The blonde was holding the bandana to her chest, a soft smile on her face that told Santana she understood exactly what the Latina was trying to say.

"Wow Santana," Mr. Shue walked over and helped Santana to stand, she winced lightly, the soles of her feet hurt a little. "That was great but so... um, angry."

"So krump!" Kurt high-fived Mercedes.

"Who knew Stick-figure could stomp?"

"Like I said," the Latina shrugged, but a smirk played on her lips. "Just something I picked up."

"Alright alright," Mr. Shue waved his hands in a calming gesture. "Now what did we interpret from Santana's dance?"

This was the part of the lesson that Santana didn't really like, when they would pow-wow after words and dissect everything that the performer was trying to say. It was the whole point of the lesson, to see what could be shown without words but it didn't make Santana any more comfortable about it.

"The girl has soul," Mercedes spoke up. "I haven't been this impressed since Quinn sang about her baby oppression."

"It kinda seemed angry to me," Finn tried. "Like kind of mad... but she's always been kind of angry."

"Good good," Mr. Shue encouraged, oblivious to Santana's growing discomfort. "Anything else?"

"While the performance was riveting, and not nearly as vulgar as I had expected," Rachel eyed Santana, "I would like to commend Santana on her emotional exposure that was on a deeper level then anger."

She gestured to Brittany who was still holding Santana's bandana.

"What do you mean Berry?" Santana asked evenly, she could feel her temperature start to rise, the blush spread up her neck.

"Well I was just referring to the admission of love for Brittany and the struggle for you to admit those feelings," she explained as if it was obvious. "That is what your frustrated performance was about, right? That was what the bandana represented? You're heart?"

Santana's eyes scattered to the faces of the Glee Club who were now looking at either her or Brittany. When she shifted her eyes back to Brittany the bandana was gone and Brittany turned to Rachel and said softly, "No Rachel, I just happened to catch it. It wasn't like, planned or anything."

Rachel seemed put out but let it drop. Santana stepped forward, towards Brittany. The tightness was back in her chest, this is what she had reduced Brittany to, telling lies to cover up her insecurities. She didn't want to do it anymore.

"I did plan it."

She spoke clearly, so that everyone could hear. She didn't want to say it out loud but Berry was right, that's what this was about, to make a statement so obvious that she couldn't turn back. She reach Brittany's chair and sank to her knees in front of the girl. She ignored the rest of the club watching, all that mattered was the hesitant look the blonde had in her eye, like she didn't believe this was happening. "I... really liked you dance San."

"I'm glad, Britts," Santana said softly, she noticed a corner of the bandana peeking out of her pocket. "Because I danced for you."

She pulled the bandana out slowly. "And I threw this to you, I did plan it. Just for you. I've... been so angry..."

"San, I'm so sorry-"

Santana pushed a finger to Brittany's lips so she could continue, "With myself Brittany, never with you, never with you. I've been angry with myself and with life, and with everything I thought was keeping us apart... but I realized that the one thing that was really doing that was... well, was me."

She tried not to get choked up at sight of Brittany's tears, and she forced herself to push on.

"And..." she took a deep breath, "If you'll still have me... I would love to make you my girlfriend."

"For real girlfriend," Brittany asked quietly, still so hesitant and it broke Santana's heart.

"For real girlfriend," Santana nodded, trying to convey just how serious she was. "We can tell everyone, and hold hands in the hallway, and go on real dates to the Sticks and no more secrets B, I'll never hide you ever again."

"Pinky promise?" the blonde held up a small finger and Santana took it in her own without hesitation.

"Pinky pro-"

She didn't get to finish before Brittany was kissing her, knocking her hat askew. She kissed back, smiling for the first time in weeks, and not feeling at all angry.

She chose to ignore the series of wolf whistles, 'Aww,' 'It's about time,' and one, 'I can't believe this.'

For all she cared, Artie could roll himself into traffic.

Just a short little bit, had some fun with this. The idea of a more Lima Heights kind of Santana was so much easier to visualize after reading Narrowriver's, Swagger and Sophistication, where she is portrayed epically.